


This Thing I've Become

by not_named_in_credits



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale-centric (Good Omens), M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21707872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_named_in_credits/pseuds/not_named_in_credits
Summary: In which heaven and hell do not leave them alone and Aziraphale will not stand for someone hurting his Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	This Thing I've Become

**Author's Note:**

> As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti  
> I seek to cure what's deep inside frightened of **this thing that I've become**  
>  It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you  
> There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
> 
> ~ Title from Toto's _[Africa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FTQbiNvZqaY)_

Aziraphale stands over Crowley’s crumpled form and watches his dark blood leak sluggishly from his wounds and mix with the rain that has been pouring from the sky for the entire day now. He shakes his head in denial and then laughs. They should have known the stalemate between them and heaven and hell was too easy.

“Darling,” he whispers. “You should have run.” 

He crouches down and buries his hand in the limp red strands of Crowley’s hair and thinks. 

He has the sneaking suspicion that this was a coordinated attack by both heaven and hell. Earlier in the day, when Crowley had been called away for what he’d called a “visit” with old friends, Michael had stopped by the bookshop, complaining bitterly for hours about the almost biblical rainfall that had been plaguing large parts of Britain for the past week or so. 

It wasn’t until Crowley had missed their standing appointment for supper that Aziraphale had started to worry. And now it was too late. Crowley was hurt and bleeding and unresponsive, and his limbs flopped about like a dead fish now that Aziraphale had wrapped his arms around him and started carrying him towards the place he’d seen the Bentley parked earlier. 

The heart in Crowley’s body was still beating — but from everything that Aziraphale knew about demon biology, Crowley was closer to discorporation than not. 

Carefully, Aziraphale places his demon on the backseat of the Bentley and takes the driver’s seat. He strokes the dashboard with his fingers and suppresses the urge to pray. 

There’s really no reason to do so anymore, he thinks, and even if there were, who would that prayer reach? Surely not his God, he thinks. She’s out of the picture for him now, and probably has been for the past six thousand years. 

He clears his throat from the tightness he suddenly feels inside and starts speaking to the car.

“All right, my dear,” he says. “It’s been a while since I’ve driven a car. But you’re not just any car, are you? I’m sure you’ll be able to help me out here. Crowley loves you an awful lot, and right now he’s going to need all the love that you and I can spare in return.”

Aziraphale startles a bit when the silence in the dark interior is broken by static on the radio.

[“Don't you know it's gonna be all right, all right, all right…”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AFckPkukF7g)¹, the Bentley sings to him in the voice of John Lennon, and Aziraphale feels a soft involuntary smile break out on his face. He’d known John for a while back in the 50s and he’d always enjoyed the energy that he’d brought along with him. He appreciates that the Bentley knows exactly whose music to choose to bring him comfort. Crowley had done well in raising her, but then he’d always been good at educating young ones. 

“I sure hope so. We’re going to have to go to Tadfield, Bentley, and it’s going to have to be fast. We need to get Crowley to Adam and hope to G—,” Aziraphale stops himself. He sighs. “We’re going to have to hope that he’s there and that he can do something about the state that Crowley is in. And then I’ll have to find Anathema.”

The engine revves by itself. The lights turn on. Soft music plays from the radio.

Aziraphale sighs again and settles in. Content to let himself be led to where he needs to go by Crowley’s demonic miracle. 

+

Adam is indeed able to do something about the state that Crowley is in. The now sixteen year old leads them into his bedroom and lays his hands on Crowley and says, “this will take quite some time.”

Whatever the demons had done to Crowley, he says, is blocking any of his more hellish powers. As if the channels for energy inside of Crowley’s body and soul had been burned away and now needed to first regrow to allow the rest of him to heal. 

“I honestly think your angelic miracles might be more helpful here,” Adam says to Aziraphale after he’d finished examining the demon.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’m worried that a blessing will hurt him more than it will help. Especially now that he is already vulnerable.” 

Besides, he thinks, he’s going to need all the power he has inside of him to make sure they’re as safe as possible from another attack right now. It’s time that both hell and heaven learned that it was best to leave them both alone.

“Do you know if Anathema is home?” He asks Adam and moves closer to Crowley’s too-still body to run his hand over his face in a sad goodbye.

“Should be.”

“Then I’ll take my leave for now. I need her help with something.” He throws one last glance at his Demon. “Please, take care of him for me? Make sure he stays in bed, even if he wakes for a bit. He always heals better if he sleeps hurts off.”

Adam nods and leads him to the door.

“You’re not gonna do something stupid, are you?” Adam asks.

“Ah, no…” Aziraphale smiles, “I’m going to do something necessary.”

+

With brisk steps, Aziraphale walks through the rain to Anathema’s house. The sun is low and with the clouds overhead it is getting dark. 

He knocks on her door. When she opens it, he steps inside without an invitation. 

“How much of your magic supplies do you have here?” He asks her.

“Hello Aziraphale,” she answers, arms crossed. “Nice night, how are you, it’s been a long time, sorry to barge in without notice…”

Aziraphale scratches the back of his head and apologizes. “I’m sorry dear, but I must insist. There is really no time. Now, magic supplies. In particular any books on Demonology? I need to craft a very large sigil and I need to make sure I get everything just right.”

Anathema throws her hands into the air in exasperation and turns away from him towards the kitchen. “Give me a second,” she says, “I just need to check in with Adam about this real quick.”

She walks over to where she’d left her cellphone earlier on the kitchen counter, but when she tries to grab it, Aziraphale’s hand slaps down on it first. She jumps back in fright. She hadn’t seen him move at all. 

“We really shouldn’t disturb Adam right now. He’s taking care of Crowley for me and I would prefer if he could concentrate on making him whole again, first.” Aziraphale’s eyes burn into her own. Anathema swallows down her protest.

That explains a lot actually, she thinks. Aziraphale without Crowley is a scary thought to behold. From what she’d seen before of the two, they were scarily co-dependent.

Now Anathema was usually not one to give in so easily but in this situation she takes one look at the slightly crazed look on the Angel’s face it would be best for her to give him what he wants. She does believe that he has Earth’s best interests at hand after all, and really, she was not sure that she would be able to stand in his way and make him see reason.

“Right. Okay. I guess I’ll just go and get the books? You’re welcome to stay here and make yourself some tea.” Tea is a fantastic idea she thinks. Anything to calm down the silently seething Angel in her kitchen would be a worthy endeavor. 

She pulls all the books about demonology from her shelves that she finds and brings them back to the kitchen. 

Aziraphale hasn’t moved at all. He still has his hand on the cellphone and is tapping the screen with one finger, apparently lost in thought.

Anathema drops the books on the kitchen counter with a loud thud and watches Aziraphale snap out of it. “This is all I have,” she says. “But I’m not sure if it’s going to be helpful.”

Aziraphale, already flipping through the first book, waves her off distractedly. “Don’t worry, dear child. I really just need to double check some calculations with the runes and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

He pulls a takeout flyer from the pile of her mail and a pencil from the miscellanious-non-kitchen-items-jar on top of her refrigerator and starts scribbling madly. Anathema decides to go for the tea, herself, and pushes a mug full of chamile towards the Angel’s side. He doesn’t touch it. 

Occasionally, she hears him hum and haw, but all in all it takes less than an hour until he drops the pen with a decisive nod and turns to go. 

“Thank you, my dear.” He says. 

Anathema stops him before he reaches the door. “Aziraphale, what exactly are you going to do?”

He looks at her, darkly. “I’ll send a message. Loud and clear.”

“This all seems like a lot of research for just a message.” She murmurs, and holds out a calming hand towards his shoulder. “Are you sure you’ll be alright? You don’t seem all that rational right now to be honest.”

He laughs at that. Not his usual amused chortle, but something hurt and angry. 

“I can’t promise I’ll be alright. It’s probably gonna hurt a lot, but it’s gonna hurt them more than it will hurt me.” He takes her hand in both of his, and smiles a bit softer. “Thank you though, for the concern. It’ll be alright in the end.” 

+

What neither Heaven nor Hell have realised (either because they do not care or because they have been stuck in their ways since the days before Eden) is that while the cosmic powers of an Angel or Demon are finite, it is certainly possible to store said power in a vessel should that be powerful enough to hold it. 

It is an idea that came to Crowley with the advent of batteries on Earth. “Just imagine,” Crowley had said to Aziraphale, eyes shining bright with excitement, “If you just siphon a little bit of your power into the vessel, you could have a huge amount of Energy to fall back on in the event that you need it.”

Aziraphale had laughed back then. “What would I need it for? I’m just a principality. None of the miracles I need to work are that big of a power drain.”

He’d still dabbled with the idea a little and started getting into the routine of putting just a smidge of magic into each book held in his bookshop. Sadly, he is here in Tadfield, and those books are far away and he has no intention of going to London and back again and give Hell enough warning and time to prepare for his retaliation. 

As luck would have it though, Aziraphale does have access to another kind of mystical battery. Not angelic, no, not at all. But rather occult in nature. 

He approaches the Bentley and carefully lays his right hand on her door handle. 

She feels similar enough to Crowley that it comforts him. It’s usually a warm feeling, deep in his belly, when Crowley is close enough to feel his occult aura. An oxymoron of course, demonic warmth. But Aziraphale thinks it’s the fires of hell burning in Crowley’s heart, the good parts at least, his passion and his love of life. 

He leans his full body against the warm metal and sighs. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m not sure what it will do to you if I use up all your energy.” 

The radio turns on, softly. [“When I hold you in my arms and I feel my finger on your trigger, know nobody can do me no harm.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vdvnOH060Qg)² The Bentley croons. 

Aziraphale lets more of his weight fall against her door. “Thank you.” He whispers. “Thank you.”

He pulls out the notes that he’d made with the help of Anathema’s books and starts explaining his plan to the Bentley. 

“We are going to have to go out in the fields, luv, and it’s going to be quite terrible for your tires.” He says apologetically. “You see this here, we’re going to have to drive this pattern into the ground out there. Thankfully with all the rain it should be easy enough. The mud will hold your tire tracks quite well.” 

+

It takes them about an hour to lay the groundwork for the summoning ritual. The Bentley slogs through the rainy and muddy landscape and complains bitterly throughout the whole ideal by subjecting Aziraphale to the more experimental side of the Beatles’ discography. 

By the time they had managed to finish to put the last sigil into the soft soil, Aziraphale is fighting off a headache and he is unsure if it’s just the general stress of the situation as a whole or because the Bentley had decided to torture him by playing [“I Am The Walrus”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t1Jm5epJr10)³ on repeat for the last leg of their drive. 

“I get it, you know,” he snaps. “I am really, truly sorry about this and if we make it through this alive I promise you that I will try to make it up to you. I’ll convince Crowley to let me give you a nice wax or something like that. Whatever you want.”

+

Finally, Aziraphale stands in the middle of a demonic summoning circle that —while outside of the village limits — is large enough to span three times its size. He leans against the Bentley’s hood and tilts his head up to the sky and watches the heavy rain drops as they fall.

He is soaked. So is the Bentley, but she has the advantage of being coated in metal. She is also pouting metaphorically, by giving him the silent treatment, because he apparently hadn’t pitied her enough. “I really don’t know what you were complaining about, dear. After all you wash a lot easier than my waistcoat.” Had, in hindsight, not been the thing to say to calm her down.

Ah well, Aziraphale thinks. At least the end of the day was approaching. The grey skies turning darker and darker as the sun was setting behind the thick clouds. 

He steels himself and gets back into the car. “It’s time.” He says and the Bentley fills the air with soft static from the radio. 

“I really don’t want to do this.” He sighs. 

“It’s not really in my nature, you know? Being violent? I mean, I guess it kind of is because we were trained for war once upon a time, but this is less war and more of an ambush.” He pauses. “But still, we can’t always run to Adam. And apparently he is less of a deterrent than we had thought anyway.”

The Bentley breaks her silence, then, impatient and apparently over his struggle with his conscience. [“Pick up the bags and get in the limousine.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BpndGZ71yww) She sings. [“Soon we'll be away from here. Step on the gas and wipe that tear away.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BpndGZ71yww)⁴

“I’m not even crying.” Aziraphale mutters but grabs the steering wheel in both hands and concentrates on pulling the occult energy that Crowley had stored in her over the past decades into his own body. 

It hurts. It feels like molten lava is sluggishly running through his veins. It feels like how Crowley had described his trek through the Hellfire on the day of the Apocalypse that wasn’t, but instead of burning from the outside, Aziraphale was burning from within.

Aziraphale grits his teeth and starts murmuring the incantation under his breath. Suddenly, there is a flash of light in front of him and he looks into the startled eyes of Beelzebub. Another flash. A Lord of Hell he does not know by name appears in the summoning circle. Then another and another and another until the whole circle, the entire three miles of it, is filled with demon spawn. 

Aziraphale laughs, in pain and certain that he is going mad from it.

He pulls on the last dregs of energy that the Bentley has got to give and grins at the confused panic that he sees in front of him. 

“Bless you,” he laughs. “Bless Tadfield. Bless you all. _Bless the fucking rain._ ⁵” 

And then he watches as all hell breaks loose. 

The power he’d been able to scrounge up after performing the summoning ritual was not enough to turn the rain into actual holy water, but from the screams starting up among the demons, that didn’t seem to matter all that much. 

Good, he thinks. Let them burn as much as I burned with anger when I saw Crowley lying broken on the floor. As much I would have if their first collusion with heaven had worked. 

His entire being, both metaphysically and bodily, is rebelling against the occult power running through it by now. His hands are shaking with the pain. He looks at the suffering demons through the windshield and holds the blessing for another couple of seconds. 

Then he breathes in deeply — and let’s go. He clenches his teeth and forces himself to ignore the lingering burn inside his very core. Be strong, he thinks. I gotta be strong. 

He opens the car door and caresses the Bentley’s metal door. He can’t feel as much of her spirit and personality as he usually can and he worries that their stunt may have harmed her more than he’d expeted. Looking at Beelzebub and her comrades curled up on the muddy Tadfield ground moaning and some of them crying, he tells himself to ignore his worries. 

Strength is what he needs to project. 

He clears his throat and does his best to sound authoritative. 

“Was it really too much to ask to be left alone?” He asks but doesn’t expect an answer. He watches Beelzebub shudder and struggle to get off the ground and onto her knees, a position that Aziraphale doubts she ever expected to take in front of an Angel. How she must hate it, he thinks. 

“This was a warning,” Aziraphale projects his voice as far as possible. “I will not tolerate any further attacks on me and mine.” He hides his own trembling hands behind his back and consciously tightens his core muscles. 

He scoffs at the struggling demon in front of him. 

“Next time, I will go for something more lethal. In a permanent way. And as you see, you have no way of avoiding my wrath. I don’t even need Crowley for something like this, so I don’t know what you all expected would happen here.” 

Beelzebub croaks something. 

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale asks her to repeat herself.

“I said, go to Hell.”

Aziraphale chuckles at that. “I really don’t think you want that. Imagine having to deal with me all day, every day? No. I think it would be best for everything to stay as it was, except you tell your superior, or whoever had this idea to go after us, to finally leave us the hell alone. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” she says. “But I can’t promise anything.”

Aziraphale grimaces. 

“Seriously,” Beelzebub says, “I cannot promise anything.”

“Well, then I guess I can’t promise not to drown all of hell in holy water.” With a shrug, Aziraphale steps away from the demon and gets back into the Bentley. 

He turns on the engine and hopes fervently that there’s enough spirit left in the car to guide him through the demonic bodies scattered and moaning all over the ground without accidentally running them over. He might be turning out to be quite a bit darker than he used to be, he thinks, but there’s just no reason to kick them — or discorporate them — while they are down.

There’d be time to wage war on Heaven and Hell later, in case they didn’t learn their lesson this time. For now Aziraphale is looking forward to picking up his demon from Adam’s place, drive him back to London, and pamper him for the rest of the week. 

A bath would be nice, he thinks. Hot water to wash the cold rain off of them both.

**Author's Note:**

> ¹-⁴ I thought it would be funny if the Bentley had a certain voice for everyone she communicated with, so the Beatles it is for Aziraphale. 
> 
> ⁵ This is it. The whole reason for this fic existing. The working title of this fic was "In which Aziraphale blesses the rains (just not in Africa)" lol.


End file.
